A Man Rather than a Machine
by losing
Summary: Sherlock Holmes shares a tense cab ride home with John Watson. While the consulting detective wonders about the man he calls a friend, the doctor wonders about the friend who acts like a machine.


**AN: **For tumblr's Let's Write Sherlock! Challenge 1

* * *

The cab was devoid of chattering voices, as it usually was when the enigmatic consulting detective and his charmingly ordinary military doctor shared the backseat. However, it was different this time and Sherlock was not happy about it. It wasn't a tangible difference. He couldn't see or touch or even smell the distinct change between the pair, which meant he couldn't deduce it. He was at a loss.

No, Sherlock couldn't work out the problem because he _felt_ it.

He felt bricks of tension building a wall around John Watson. He felt anger pouring off his flat mate in heated waves. He felt guilt casting a shadow over his usually sound reason. And he felt fear creeping up his spine at the thought that maybe this time… maybe he went too far. And he wanted to say something. Oh god how he wanted to say something—_anything_—that would break through the invisible shroud of emotion choking him in the quickly shrinking back seat of that damn cab.

"John, I—"

"No," John cut off swiftly, "just no, Sherlock. Not now. I don't want to hear your excuses. Not this time."

Sherlock swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. Was he feeling ill? No. But he was feeling something akin to it. He was nervous. Rational, emotionless, _heartless_ Sherlock Holmes was nervous as hell and, if he were completely honest with himself, slightly intimidated by John's agitated and clearly livid body language. It almost came as a relief when the cab finally stopped outside the familiar door of 221B Baker Street. As Sherlock bent to hand the cabbie a few random bills from his pocket, John was already stalking to the door, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. Sherlock climbed from the vehicle and followed, feeling disheartened.

"I lost my keys," John said tersely as he motioned towards the black door with his head.

"Right," Sherlock spat back. It only took him a moment to slide his key into the lock and push the door open. He stood aside and let John through.

"Oh, what, you're angry now? Perfect," the doctor muttered as he pushed past the consulting detective.

"What are you saying, John?" Sherlock asked, feeling the blood begin to race in his veins, making his heart pound against his ribcage.

John paused, right foot on the first step leading up to their shared flat, hand gripping the banister. He turned to give Sherlock a scathing look. "Oh, nothing," he shrugged sarcastically. "Just that everything, once again, has to revolve around you. _I _was the one who was nearly beheaded! But no, Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, the only one of his kind, is the one who's feeling put out!"

Sherlock stood momentarily frozen in place at the door. He didn't want to hear this. He wanted to block John's words out. He had heard this before, from his father, from his brother, from the other detectives at the Yard. He could deduce what was going to come next. _'You're a freak, Sherlock. You're not normal. Monster. Heartless.'_ And he didn't want to hear that. Not from John Watson. Not from the same man who first called his deductions fantastic and amazing and supported him. Hell, he did more than that. He saved his life.

But the look John was giving him now; it was enough to stop him in his tracks. The shorter man's eyes weren't looking up at him with the reverence and warmth he was used to. These eyes were cold, disappointed, distant. Sherlock couldn't bear it.

"Well?" John looked at him expectantly. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He didn't know how to apologize or even that that's what John was looking for. He just knew that he was feeling a million things he had never felt before, all unpleasant. His abnormally rapid mind couldn't process and categorize what was happening within him. He was lost in a sea of emotion and his usual lifeboat, Doctor John Watson, was drifting further and further away.

Then John was gone. With a heavy sigh, he passed Sherlock in the hall and walked right back out the door. Sherlock was stunned. He was prepared for shouting. He was prepared for Mrs. Hudson to hurry from some direction in the house to see what all the commotion was about. He expected slamming doors and yelled insults and unintelligible screaming. He wasn't prepared for John to simply walk out, just give up on him. That wasn't the type of man John Watson was.

But perhaps Sherlock Holmes knew nothing about the actual John Watson.


End file.
